A Beginner's Guide to Rakes (3 page)

A hand grabbed her elbow. “What the dev—”

Diane blinked, pulling in her thoughts even as she faced Oliver again. His expression hadn’t altered, but his eyes weren’t cool any longer. “Not here, Oliver,” she cooed, holding still despite the fact that she had the sudden urge to yank herself free and run. Swiftly. “We must discuss the details first.” With her free hand she reached up and touched his cheek, brushed her fingers against hair the brown of richest chocolate.

The murmuring became peppered with gasps of surprise. “Whatever you’re attempting to tangle me in, I will destroy you for this,” he breathed.

She smiled again. “You may try,” she returned. “Now unhand me or I shall kiss you.”

The trap of his fingers snapped open, and feeling rushed back into her arm.

“A pity you aren’t dancing this evening,” she continued in a more audible tone. “Ten o’clock. Don’t forget.”

His hard gaze held her in place for a moment. “I don’t forget anything.”

“Hm. Neither do I.”

As she glided over to meet her partner for the next dance of the evening, she used every ounce of willpower to keep her hands and voice steady. Yes, she knew precisely what she was doing and no, he didn’t frighten her in the least, but being face-to-face with him again … It reminded her of more than how much she disliked the man. Touching him sparked the memory of things that she’d already resolved were not to be dredged up again. Not for anything.

By the second waltz of the evening Lord Haybury was nowhere to be found and the gossip about her plans had spread so far it was coming back to her. She stood to one side, intentionally in sight of all the men who’d asked her to waltz and been refused. Yes, they were on the dance floor while she wasn’t, but each one knew—as did she—that he was partnered with his second choice.

Yes, the night was proceeding perfectly. The only thing that could have made it better was if Oliver had demanded a waltz as well, so she could have turned him down just as she had all the others. More than likely he’d known that, though. Oliver Warren was no fool.

“You should sample the parfaits,” Jenny said from beside her. “They are exquisite.”

“The Hennessys’ chef is a fellow from Sicily,” she returned. “I won’t have him.”

“I didn’t mean you should hire him. I meant the sweets are tasty.”

Diane rolled her shoulders. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry, my dear; I’m obsessing again. But I won’t be eating this evening.”

“I shall eat two, then.” Genevieve seated herself, using a stand of ferns to shield her from the majority of the room. “Everyone wants to know if you’ve gone mad. ‘A club? What sort of club? If Haybury is involved it must be for wagering.’”

“I told you he was the better choice, however willing Lord Blalock was to open his purse. Blalock wasn’t known for anything but having deep pockets and a penchant for the ladies. Oliver Warren is synonymous with wagering. It saves so many steps.”

Even without looking, she knew Jenny’s expression would be skeptical. It didn’t matter, however. She’d taken the first step and had already laid out the pathway all the way to the front door. And Oliver had best walk it with her, or he would regret it. Because arrogant as he was, she knew just where to find the chinks in his armor. Nor was she afraid to exploit them. With Lord Blalock dead, everything depended on it.

“As you said, we have no choice,” her companion agreed softly.

“As I said. More gossip, if you please.”

“I’ll be close by the refreshment table. And not because of the parfaits. The sweets seem to loosen tongues.”

“I’ll not begrudge you a parfait, my dear. Merely keep your ears busy, as well.”

“Mais oui.”

Partway across the room Diane noticed a young lady looking at her. That wasn’t so unusual, though the woman’s expression wasn’t the vaguely resentful one she’d already become accustomed to seeing on female faces this evening. Finally the lady clasped her hands together and approached. “Has it truly been so long that you don’t remember me?” she said, stopping a few feet away.

Diane looked at her more closely. “Jane Lumley.”

Jane smiled. “You see? Four years hasn’t altered me so much. You, on the other hand…” She gestured at the sleek black gown Diane wore. “You’ve become some sort of goddess of temptation, I think.”

“Oh, please. It’s only clothes.” Abruptly less certain than she had been since her return to London, Diane gestured her old friend toward the open balcony doors. She hadn’t had many close friends before Frederick, and fewer after, and this was not a conversation she looked forward to having. But if she’d learned anything over the past four years, it was that no one else would look after her with the same care and cunning she used. And looking after herself took precedence over everything. Even old friends.

“For someone who so quietly absented herself from Society you certainly know how to make a grand entrance,” Jane observed as they stepped out on the balcony. Two couples had preceded them, but it was still a hundred times quieter than the ballroom.

Of course quiet also meant they could more easily be overheard. “Frederick’s decision to leave England was rather … impulsive. Leaving Vienna took a bit more forethought. It’s such a lovely city, you know.”

“So I hear.” Her expression cooling a fraction, Jane sent her gaze over the rooftops behind them. “You’re not still in mourning, are you?” she asked in a quieter voice. “Because as I recall, you and Frederick—”

“Vienna is quite romantic as well,” Diane broke in. “You really should make an effort to visit.”
There.
Whatever her motives, it would never do for her to be seen as mercenary. Everyone had to see something in her plans for themselves, or her ship would be sunk before it ever left port.

“I shall, then.” Jane favored her with a sideways glance. “I would be delighted if you would call on me, you know. For tea, or luncheon, or shopping—whatever pleases you.”

“Well, I’m frightfully busy with my new hobby, but we shall see. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Your new hobby being opening a gaming house?”

“A club. A magnificent, very exclusive club.”

“A club, then.” Jane drew a breath. “We were dear friends once, Diane. If you ever wish to chat, I shall lend you an ear. Two, if necessary.”

“Thank you, but I’m not harboring any dark secrets. Not very exciting, I know, but there you have it.”

When Jane excused herself a few moments later in favor of a clearly nonexistent appointment, Diane let out her breath in a small sigh. Yes, they’d been friends, but the last thing she needed these days was a combination of confidante and reminder of her unfortunate, naïve past. Diane chose her companions and associates with great care now, mostly because she could. In fact, she refused to be a victim of circumstance or tradition or—or anything, any longer.

This was her venture, and no one else would be allowed to guide, assume, or abscond with it. Ever. And the sooner one particularly arrogant man learned his place in the scheme of things, the better for everyone concerned. She would tell him that tomorrow. At ten o’clock.

Chapter Three

It was the first time, Oliver reflected, that he’d ever been threatened with a public kiss and backed down.

Any chit who delivered such a challenge to
him,
of all people, deserved every ounce of ruination he could send in her direction—which was quite a bit, given his reputation. In his own defense Diane had made her threat quietly enough that no one had overheard, so if he’d answered her challenge he would have looked the bully. Aside from that, Diane Benchley was up to something.

He had no intention of stumbling into some plot of hers mouth first. Or anything else first. No, today he would be treading very carefully. And she’d best be as well, for her own sake.

He swung down from Brash and handed the thoroughbred’s reins to a waiting stable boy. “Keep him walking; I won’t be long.”

“Yes, my lord.” The gray-haired fellow bobbed his head and led the gelding around the side of the large town house.

It was common knowledge that the fortunes of the Benchleys had been falling for years, which if nothing else left them with a string of impressive properties they had married into in an ongoing search for wealthy in-laws. Such was the case with Adam House; the earl two or three generations ago had snared the eldest daughter of Maximillian Adam, the Marquis of Wright. The house had been a wedding gift from the marquis.

Oliver had done some checking in the last few days, and since Adam House wasn’t entailed, he was rather surprised the late Earl of Cameron hadn’t sold the place to keep the dunners off his trail. But perhaps he’d intended to regain his fortune in Europe and then return to London and Adam House in the rather spectacular manner his wife had managed. That might even be what Diane wanted everyone to think. It was only because of a quirk of fate that he knew otherwise about her fortunes.

A young woman opened the front door as he reached it, and Oliver paused for a moment. He’d seen attractive women before, of course, but this one wore breeches. And a butler’s jacket and waistcoat. Whatever Diane was up to, apparently she’d lost her sensibilities in the process.

“My lord,” the woman intoned, inclining her head. “Lady Cameron is expecting you. If you’ll follow me.”

Once he’d entered the foyer, the lady butler shut the door and led the way upstairs. Oliver occupied himself with watching her hindquarters—a surprisingly sensual sight in those breeches and long jacket tails—and nearly ran into her when she abruptly stopped outside a closed door. She knocked twice, cracked open the door, and then returned down the stairs.

So he was expected to make his own entrance. That was nothing new, except that he knew Diane Benchley. This would be a chess game, and in her home, at her request, he’d already lost several pawns.

And she was undoubtedly counting the seconds between the knock and his entrance, estimating whether he was hesitating or plotting, or both. Oliver pushed open the door with one fingertip and stepped inside.

Diane sat behind a desk. “Are you trying to look busy, or to keep me at a distance?” he asked, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it.

Lifting one forefinger at him, she continued to scribble in a ledger. She wore black again, this time a simple, straightforward muslin that still managed to make her look sleek and stunning. Black hair swept back into a simple knot might have been meant to look severe, but the strands that escaped to frame her face were far too artfully placed to be accidental.

“You were wearing black when I last saw you in Vienna,” he commented, studying her lowered face. “You didn’t mean it then, either.”

“When last you saw me I’d been widowed for less than a month. Of course I meant it.”

Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “How closely do you wish me to recall the events of Vienna? Because I wouldn’t have called it mourning.”

With a sigh she set down her quill pen and steepled her fingers in front of her. “You didn’t care what I called it. How could the color of my gown signify when you only wanted me out of it?”

“Is this the game we’re playing, then?” He folded his arms over his chest. “I wanted you in it, but I could only have you out of it.”

“Until you ran home to London like a scalded dog. That is what
I
recall about Vienna.”

He pushed upright again. “I returned home to claim my inheritance.”

“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot. You’re a marquis now. What a fortunate bit of timing that you can blame your cowardice on your uncle’s demise.”

Oliver took a step closer. “I suggest you stop referring to my uncle’s death as fortunate,” he said, his jaw clenched. “That sort of talk causes rumors to start.”

“I will, as soon as you cease referring to my period of mourning as gown deep.”

Well, she had him there. As for the scalded-dog reference, she had him there as well. That part, however, he had no wish to admit to. Not to her, or to anyone else. “Agreed,” he said aloud. “We shall cease insulting one another about our feelings or lack thereof upon the death of near relations.”

“Good.”

Reaching behind him, Oliver pulled open the door again. “Then good day, Diane.”

“I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Unless you have something to say that involves money or sex, I’m not interested.”

“Money.”

Finding that he would much rather have left Adam House regardless of her answer, Oliver forced himself to close the door again. “Speak.”

“Sit down, why don’t you?”

“Not until I know whether your conversation will make me money or cost me money.”

A muscle in her cheek jumped. “First one, and then the other.”

As little information as she was feeding him, she was replying. And he remained curious despite himself. Oliver released the door handle and strolled forward to sit in one of the large chairs placed opposite the desk. “I’m listening.”

“I had a plan for my club,” she said without preamble. “Lord Blalock signed papers agreeing to lend me five thousand pounds and to lease the old Monarch Club property in his name and for my use.”

“Blalock broke his damned neck out riding after foxes with his latest mistress.”

“Yes, I know. I discovered that the morning after I arrived in London.”

Oliver gazed at her. Emerald green eyes held his steadily; she knew what he was deciphering, and she wasn’t attempting to keep any information from him. Not about her finances, at any rate. “That must have been quite a shock.”

“You have no idea.”

“I’m to be Blalock’s replacement, then. You want me to lend you the money.”

“A bank won’t.”

“What about the money your late husband owed nearly everyone?”

“I’ve either repaid it or made arrangements to do so.”

“With what? You were, as I recall, left penniless in Vienna.”

“Frederick signed over all his unentailed property to me.”

Sinking back in his very comfortable leather chair, Oliver crossed his legs at the ankles. “No, he didn’t. Not before he died. You complained about having nothing the night we met. Or the morning after that, rather.”